40
Past, Las Vegas, Nevada, Age 17
For all the times I go to the Strip, there are an equal number of times that I don’t. Times when my mom needs me or I have too much homework or a test to study for. I’m still trying to maintain good grades. It must be working because my guidance counselor at school feels confident that I’ll get lots of college acceptances, even to the Ivy League schools. My applications are in. Now I’m just waiting to hear back.
“School’s the most important thing, Kitten,” Mom reminds me, even when she’s in the hospital.
Shelly has given up any pretense of caring about school. I see the big red Fs on the tests that get returned to her in class. Those nights when I don’t make it to the Strip, she still goes. We’ve spent so much time there that we’ve made friends with the casino staff. The blackjack dealers, restaurant hostesses, spa masseuses, and club bouncers. A barter system exists between these workers. Concert tickets are traded for seats at the latest hot restaurant. Working an extra shift on the casino floor might get you a free facial at the spa, if you know the right people.
I miss a week with Shelly when my mom goes to the hospital for a bout of pneumonia. Once Mom is feeling better, the need for money forces me into my angel show-girl costume. I call Shelly to tell her I’m ready to go back to work.
That night, Shelly picks me up in a sleek, brand-new Mercedes. Much like Shelly’s hair color, her cars are always changing. Green hair and blue sedan today. I’m not an idiot. I understand these cars are probably stolen. The thing I don’t know is how deep Shelly’s involvement goes. Is she part of an international auto theft ring? Or is she hot-wiring cars on her own? Is Rafe involved?
These are questions I think about but never ask out loud. There’s a precarious balance between Shelly and me, one I don’t want to break. Financially, I can’t risk losing her as my business partner. Emotionally, I can’t risk losing her as my only friend.
I also can’t risk being involved. Not with my future at stake.
After I’ve settled into the springy passenger seat, I inhale a deep lungful of new car smell. Shelly shifts the car into gear, and I get a glimpse of a large black stamp in the shape of an RA on the back of her hand.
“What’s that all about?” I ask, pointing to the letters. They remind me of a logo, but I can’t remember which one.
A half-shrug from Shelly. “It’s a club at the Luxor. I went last night.”
“How’d you get in?” I grab her hand, forcing her to steer one-handed, and pull it close to my face, inspecting the blurred letters. “You don’t have an ID.”
The passing street lamps create a strobe pattern in the car’s interior, throwing it into alternating periods of illumination and shadow as we pass in and out of pools of light.
“I do now.” Her white teeth gleam as she breaks into a self-satisfied smile.
“What?” I drop her hand, and she places it back on the steering wheel. “How?”
The smile widens into a grin. “You remember the bouncer over at the Rio? Bruce?”
I nod, picturing the tattooed man in his slick black suit. “Yeah, I know him.”
“He hooked me up.” She glances toward the passenger seat. “He can get you a fake ID, too. I only paid $30.”
“No, thanks.” I shake my head. I’ve curled my hair tonight, so the movement sends my ruby-red spirals bouncing.
“Why not? I’ve been going to the clubs, and it’s fun. If you get an ID, we can go together.” Her voice becomes pleading. “Please?” she whines. “It’ll be even better with you there.”
“Sorry, but I can’t. I’m trying to be there for my mom as much as possible.” A twist of resentment stirs in my gut. Of course, I want to be out having fun too, but I have responsibilities. Of all people, I hoped Shelly would understand.
I freeze at her next words.
“Rafe was at the club last night, wearing this tight shirt. He must be working out because he’s all bulked up. I’m telling you, he was looking good.” She drags out the last word, practically salivating.
I still haven’t mentioned my fascination with Rafe to Shelly. Something’s been holding me back. I used to tell her everything, all my deepest, darkest secrets back when we were little kids, but not anymore. I flash back to the night she stole from cars in the Starlight parking lot. It made me uncomfortable to see that side of her, the lying and thieving side. Now it’s too late to make a claim on Rafe. It’s not like he belongs to me, anyway. We just shared one kiss.
“Oh?” I try to sound noncommittal, like I don’t care, when in reality I’m hanging on every word she says. “He was there?”
“He was there looking hot,” confirms Shelly with a Cheshire-cat grin. “I didn’t get to talk to him, but next time I’ll make sure he notices me.”
A fiery knife twists in my heart. I turn to my window and open it halfway, using the motion to hide the tale-tell jealousy on my face.
Oblivious, she continues, “Guess who else was at the club?”
“Who?” Neon lights flash by outside my window. The sidewalks are crowded with tourists and revelers who stumble drunkenly down the street. It’s noisy. As we drive past, music blares from restaurants and shops, each song overlapping with the next. The clinking sound of slot machines pours out of open casino doors. Every day is the same here, like it’s an eternal Saturday night. The perfect night to go out and gamble with your money and sometimes with your heart, too.
“That guy who has a crush on you. You know the one. Short and geeky. What’s his name again?” She turns the car into the Starlight parking lot, past the chain-link fence that’s been cut and dragged away to leave an opening. Even though this lot is supposed to be blocked off, it’s always full of cars. Nobody seems to care if we park here or that kids party in the abandoned hotel. I’ve never seen security around the place. There are rumors it’s set for demolition. Supposedly, the plan is to implode the old hotel and casino using dynamite, but they haven’t announced a date yet.
“Do you mean Stewart?” I answer Shelly’s question.
I had met Stewart a few months ago. It had been late one night when the crowd was slow. Taking advantage of the lull, I had spread my jacket on the ground, sticky from spilled drinks, old gum, and who knew what else. I sat down and leaned against the cold concrete wall of the casino with my novel in hand when a voice interrupted me.
“Is that Harry Potter?”
I looked up to see a slim young man with black-rimmed glasses, which magnified his doe-brown eyes. He had wiry brown hair prematurely receding in the front. A sports jacket was thrown over a plaid button-up shirt paired with dark blue jeans and scuffed white sneakers.
“It’s the third one.” I held up Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban for the stranger to see.
“How do you like it? I’ve read them all, and this story is the darkest.” Although he looked young, the man had a formal way of speaking, almost like a professor.
No one else I knew had read the series, so I was eager to discuss them. “I like it. I can’t believe they executed the hippogriff, Buckbeak, though.”
“Ah, keep reading. That part of the story isn’t over yet.” The man looked at the ground shyly. “I’m Stewart. I…I just graduated from college, and now I…I work at the Luxor.” He had a slight stutter, like he wasn’t sure what to say.
“Tiffany. I work…here I guess.” I waved at the busy sidewalk in front of us.
Stewart’s gaze followed my hand and then returned to me. “How do you like that? Working here?” he had asked hesitantly.
I searched his expression for judgment. I got that a lot from women who would wrinkle their noses like they smelled something rancid when they walked by me. People who looked down on me for my skimpy outfit and the fact that I was exchanging my looks for cold, hard cash. It used to bother me, that disdain on people’s faces, but, over time, I had grown more comfortable with it. Whenever it became too much, I pictured my mom pale and fragile in a hospital bed, red hair blazing against the stark white pillow, and the money I needed to pay her medical bills. The image served as motivation to look past the revulsion.
No judgment was on Stewart’s face, though. He seemed curious. Like my opinion was interesting and worthy of his attention. It had been a while since anyone had looked at me like that. We had talked for over an hour that night, mostly about books we liked and movies we’d seen. We quickly agreed that most movies made from books were disappointing. They could never compare to the pictures we had formed in our minds while reading.
I had seen Stewart a few times since then. He would seek me out, patiently waiting until there was a break in the stream of tourists shooting photos with me. I had an inkling he had a crush on me. He was an obviously intelligent guy, but his words would grow clumsy around me. The way his face would redden, and how he couldn’t look me in the eye, were more clues.
I liked Stewart. He differed from most of the self-serving people I met on the Strip, more honest and introspective. I fostered our friendship but was careful not to encourage him too much. I didn’t want to lead him on.
“Yeah, Stewart. That’s the one,” Shelly says, dragging me back into the present.
After she parks, we gather our backpacks and pick our way across the parking lot, gingerly stepping over broken bottles with jagged edges and half-used cigarette butts. Faint dance music emanates from the shattered windows of the hotel, but that’s not our destination tonight.
“What do you know about him? Stewart, I mean,” asks Shelly. There’s an eager gleam in her eyes, like she can’t wait to share some juicy gossip. She’s always liked to know things before other people, thriving off the feeling of power it gives her.
“I know he just turned 20 and that he graduated from college early. I think he skipped some grades since he’s so smart. He works for the Luxor, but I’m not sure what he does,” I admit, feeling guilty. Stewart has spent hours asking me about my life, getting to know me. I’d even told him about my mom’s cancer. Have I been selfish? Haven’t tried as hard to learn about him?
As we wait for a blinking walk sign to turn from red to green, Shelly reveals, “Your little buddy Stewart is the son of Johnny Stralla, the guy who owns the whole casino, the Luxor!”
“What?” I think back to my conversations with Stewart. He had told me how his mother passed away when he was a baby, an experience that made him especially sympathetic to the situation with my mom. But I can’t remember him saying much about his dad.
Shelly continues, “I heard his dad is in the mob. They call him Johnny the Shark or something crazy like that. Anyway, Stewart works in the technology department. He’s pretty high up there.”
“What does the technology department do?” I wave to some of the other show girls on the street as we walk past. We know them all now.
“I wasn’t sure either, but a guy I was talking to works security at Luxor. He told me Stewart’s in charge of the computers, like the ones that do surveillance and the ones that count the money. This guy said Stewart’s so smart he even invented some computer stuff, a program that can track the customers’ faces or something crazy. No wonder he’s such a nerd.” She widens her eyes. “Did you know?”
Stunned, I answer, “I had no idea.” This new information changes my perception of Stewart from a bumbling bookish man to a more calculated, tech-savvy genius. Which version of him is the real one? Also, if Stewart’s dad is in the Mafia, does that mean Stewart is too? The image of shy Stewart as a gun-toting Mafioso seems ludicrous.
We reach our favorite street corner in front of New York-New York and drop our bags. Shelly puts out a hand-lettered sign we made. Show-girl photos for $20, it says in glitter ink surrounded by iridescent gold foil stars. The glitter had been Shelly’s idea, and the stars had been mine.
She carefully balances the sign against the casino wall, angling it outward so it can be easily seen. “When he finally gets enough guts to ask you out—”
“He’s not asking me out.” I place a bowl for the tourists’ money on the ground next to our sign. It already has a crisp $20 bill in it. We’ve found people are more likely to leave money if there’s already some in there.
Ignoring me, Shelly continues, “When he finally asks you out, I think you should demand to go to that fancy steak place in the Luxor. He probably gets a huge employee discount there. Or…” Her eyes go wide, and she grabs my upper arm, clutching it tightly. “Maybe he even gets it for free,” she whispers reverently and puts her other hand dramatically over her heart. Closing her eyes, she says, “Can you imagine it? Free steak.” She licks her lips.
I laugh. “Geez. Did you skip dinner or something? Are you okay? Should I buy you a burger?”
She drops her hands back down to her side and narrows her eyes at me. “I’m serious. A girl has to eat. The guy has it bad for you, so you might as well take advantage.”
I give her a doubtful look. “Stewart’s nice. I wouldn’t do that. Besides, you don’t know if he even likes me.”
Shelly doesn’t bother replying. She just rolls her eyes and turns to our first customer.